Europa Blues

by Arne Dahl

  The eight emails were sitting there, their titles in bold. Once she clicked on them, the font normalised after a few seconds. Once they had emptied their bowels.

  Message one: Information from Dublin. Detective Superintendent Radcliffe. ‘I’m wondering whether I didn’t hear about something similar in the former DDR. Get in touch with Benziger in Weimar. No idea what his title is, but he’s friendly. As you also seem to be, Ms Holm.’

  Message two: A telling-off from Paris. Chief Superintendent Mérimée. ‘Misuse of Europol resources. Should be used exclusively for combating the following points: unlawful drug trafficking, crimes involving illicit immigration networks, illicit vehicle trafficking, the trafficking of human beings (including child pornography), the forgery of money and other means of payment, the illicit trafficking of nuclear or other radioactive material, terrorism and the illicit laundering of money in relation to any of the above crimes.’

  Message three: Confirmation from Budapest. Detective Superintendent Mészöly. ‘Very interesting. We had a similar case in October ’99. Twenty-nine-year-old man, active in the prostitution branch, hung upside down and with a kind of metal wire inserted into his temple. We would gladly familiarise ourselves with your investigation, and you can, of course, have access to ours.’

  Message four: Another confirmation, this time from Maribor, Slovenia. Police Chief Sremac. ‘Same thing here in March. Serious criminal strung up, skull penetrated. Awaiting further information.’

  Messages five, six and seven: Yet more confirmations, from Wiesbaden in Germany, Antwerp in Belgium, and Venice, Italy. Chief Inspector Roelants in Antwerp added: ‘Don’t be surprised, Ms Holm, if more confirmations turn up. Those of us who have experienced this crime have been in internal, official contact for several months. My judgement, however, is that, so far, none of us have managed to establish any direct links between the cases.’

  Message eight: Inquiry from Stockholm. Division Chief Waldemar Mörner. ‘Who in high heavens authorised this inquiry? Whose budget will this come out of? WM.’

  Kerstin Holm called Paul Hjelm.

  ‘They’ve been at it just over a year,’ she said.

  ‘In Europe?’ he asked.

  ‘In Budapest, Maribor, Wiesbaden, Antwerp and Venice so far. If we include our victims, that means seven people have been strung up and had their cerebral cortex pierced. Add to that Hamid al-Jabiri from Odenplan metro station and it’s eight dead. There don’t seem to have been any wolverines anywhere else.’

  ‘What kind of victims?’

  ‘They seem to have been serious criminals, the lot of them. Everyone but Leonard Sheinkman.’

  ‘Do any of your contacts suspect a link to Ghiottone?’

  ‘No. But it’s all rudimentary so far. We’ll exchange investigations.’

  ‘Online? Is that really secure?’

  ‘What is secure nowadays?’ asked Kerstin Holm.

  And with that, she was gone. Paul Hjelm cursed the invention of the mobile phone and hung up.

  19

  12 February 1945

  At long last, I have managed to get hold of some paper and a pencil. I shan’t waste time and energy explaining how; I have much too little of either of those to spare. My time is running out, my strength ebbing away. I can feel it, I know it. It will soon be my turn. I have seen the list. I have seen my name on the list. Leonard Sheinkman, it said. Me. It seems only fair to be clear about that from the beginning. To avoid any misunderstandings.

  This may be the very last thing I write in this life and I don’t want to waste it on petty details. I have done more than enough of that.

  I truly wish it were possible to describe love. I am an author, describing is what I do, and yet I cannot do it. Well then, who can? Perhaps it is only possible afterwards, once it is all too late.

  If that is true, it should be possible now.

  My son …

  No. Not today. Today won’t do.

  Today I will simply have to make do with the pleasure of once more feeling the weight of a pencil in my hand, once more being able to caress the smooth paper beneath it.

  Once upon a time, writing was what made me live. Will it simply be the memory of this I experience when pencil meets paper, or will I live again? One last flourish?

  13 February 1945

  It is so strange to see time. It is outside the window. My friends here, they are distant. They aren’t friends, they are fellows in misfortune – the type of man best avoided, since they simply reflect yourself. Do I look the way they look? I am thirty-three years old and I probably look like an old corpse. There are men much younger than me here and they look older than the image I have of myself. I hope to be able to retain that image until I die.

  That should be possible; it won’t be far off.

  I see time. One might think it is nothing but a black clock tower, something physical, a timepiece with a complex mechanical motion, a tower constructed to keep the ravages of time in check. Each second is the tower’s triumph; each second of the ageing which has gone on century after century, marked by the mechanical precision of the clock. But that isn’t what I see. What I see is time.

  I cannot explain it, and yet I must try. Why else would this pencil be resting in my hand, why else would all this effort have gone towards placing time here, right here, at the point of pencil meeting paper?

  What I can see is time. That is where I must begin. My time, and how time changed when I met Magda and walked hand in hand with her, at home in Berlin. Our Tiergarten … So calm and tranquil. Prior to that, I had been a suffering author. I had suffered from loneliness. But suddenly, I became a productive author. A productive man. I believe I produced something of a real life, too. A home. A life shared. A little bit of happiness. She read the words I wrote; she was my best reader. Then along came the baby. Our son. Miracles impossible to describe. Each movement was a miracle. The soft movements of those chubby little arms. The turn of a head. Those dark eyes, pupils shrinking and expanding. Everything was a miracle.

  And that was time.

  I can see it again now. Is it still a miracle? Can it still, ticking away so mechanically up there on the hexagonal black tower, send me the peace the miracle deserves? It can, for a moment – a short, short moment when pencil meets paper. But I can also feel the iciness descending the moment I lift the pencil. The spaces between words are blocks of ice. The words are freezing fast in them.

  With their wounded heads, the men pace the corridors like corpses and I think: Do you see time too, people? Are you also able to see time for a brief, brief moment? How do you do it?

  I myself have no method.

  The text is fading now. The ice is spreading over the letters, freezing pencil to paper like a tongue to metal, and I wonder: Why did you die away from me? Why wasn’t I the one to die away from you? My brain will be frozen solid. That is my only comfort and my sole, minuscule trace of resistance.

  Dying.

  14 February 1945

  New day. I have seen the list again. The icy wind swept in through the window from the square, making the sheet flutter in through the barred door and come to rest by my bare feet.

  Yet another toe will have to go, I think. The middle toe on my left foot is as black as the hexagonal tower which taunts me out there with its indifferent ticking. I don’t hear it, but I see it. I see it constantly, unceasingly.

  The list was lying there by my blackened toe, and I saw that my name had climbed higher. I welcomed it as a gift. A gift from the icy wind. Soon you will wrap the clock tower in your ice and your time, and then even the time moving through its mechanisms and the time being cast out in its ironic, rejoicing bells, even that time will be swept up in your ice, ice wind, and all time will cease. Each of us will move through a frozen existence, a moment frozen to emptiness, and all other people will be utterly still and utterly frozen in front of all others, and there will be as many worlds as people and all people will be living in their own world where all other peo
ple are frozen solid.

  I know I should record facts. Leave behind my testimony. Produce detailed accounts. Something posterity can verify and from which it can learn. Some time, long, long after my death, everything that happens here will be judged, and I should already be planning the means by which to ensure that my papers will outlive me, finding a route for them, a means of escape; whatever the price, finding a benefit and use for this stump of pencil and these few sheets of paper which, even now, practically while I write – such moves time – have managed to yellow. But I cannot. I cannot record facts. My soul does not work that way.

  It doesn’t work at all.

  It is nothing but a brain, a mechanism. Like the clock. And the body, it is the clock tower, built for one purpose and one purpose only: to hold.

  Not to fall apart as the mechanism is dissected.

  Perhaps they are watchmakers, those three officers.

  But then I see time once more, and once more it is a miracle. He manages to sit up, my son. My wife clasps her hands, not that they touch his thin little back, but almost; it is like there is a field between her hand and his back, a magnetic field of life, and whatever exists between them, it also exists between myself and them, and I know that once I am no longer here, that magic which exists as a field of life between us, when it no longer exists they will no longer exist. They don’t exist. They are dead. I am dead. Then why do I move? The twitching of a fish with a broken neck. The march of the hen after her head is cut off.

  I am becoming too eager.

  Where is my restraint?

  I will stop for today.

  Enough.

  Die.

  15 February 1945

  Live.

  For a while longer. A few breaths longer.

  Those crashes out on the streets, the clouds of stone dust blowing in through the window, they should wake hope. But I don’t dare hope. There is no hope left for me. My family is dead and my name is too high up on the list.

  Our Tiergarten … How we wandered. The zoo on the other side of the canal. Franz had laughed and pointed at a pelican. He had been sitting on my shoulders.

  No, this won’t do.

  Or?

  My son was on my shoulders. His little heels bumped against my jacket, leaving indelible marks. They are still there, though the jacket has been burnt and his shoes have been burnt and his tiny little feet have been burnt. They are still there, right in front of my eyes, and when my eyes burn those tiny little heel marks on my jacket, marks which made me so angry, they will still exist somewhere. They are chronicles. They are facts. They are testimonies and accounts.

  They are life.

  He pointed at the pelican and the pelican made an inimitable sound but Franz imitated it anyway; he sat on my shoulders and sounded exactly like the pelican on the other side of the water and how we laughed. I laughed, Magda laughed, and Franz laughed though he didn’t know why, and that laugh, that short, baseless laugh, has kept me alive here in the land of death. I am inching towards the top of the list.

  One day very soon, I will make it, and then it will be like it is for Erwin. Erwin is not Jewish. I believe he belongs to the category they call ‘substandard humans’, with a slight disability which was essentially more social than genetic. He can’t be more than twenty. I could have been his father.

  The treatment has made him confused. In the beginning, we had intelligent conversation; he knew nothing about contemporary society but plenty about the more eternal questions in life. He had considered it all. Had plenty of time to think. He has not rushed through life the way I have. Now, though, there isn’t much left. When I speak to him, there is no one there. He is nothing but an empty shell. Over the spot where it has been running out of his head, an innocent little gauze dressing.

  It is worse than him being dead. He walks around like a constant reminder of what will soon happen to us all.

  Not that there are many of us left.

  But I am still many. I am Leo, I am Magda, I am Franz. And I am Erwin.

  I am also Erwin.

  16 February 1945

  My son walked alongside me. He held my hand and we walked through the Tiergarten. It was dull and rainy, one of those bleak, wet autumn days Berlin so often enjoys – bleak, wet, remarkably beautiful. The leaves had started to fall from the trees. They mixed with the mud in the puddles to form a brownish-yellow sludge. Franz suddenly paused right next to one of these pools. He let go of my hand, turned round and hugged me.

  He came just up to my navel.

  We stood there for a moment in the cool, fine rain. I held him. I had nothing to say.

  And then he let go.

  He headed straight for the muddy pool. And as he walked, he sank down into it, inch by inch. He said not a word, he simply walked and walked and sank and sank until there was nothing left. His little black head disappeared with a gurgle. The surface was oddly calm.

  And I, I just stood there watching him sink. Not a finger did I lift to save him. Not a finger.

  We could have fled. Magda had been nagging me: ‘Your friends are leaving, your colleagues are leaving, everyone we know is leaving. But us, we’re staying. Why? Why do you want to stay and wait for death? Think of Franz, at the very least.’ And I said: ‘It can’t be that bad. This is the twentieth century. We have cars, aeroplanes, the microscope. We have democracy and contraceptives and psychoanalysis and liberal arts. All we need to do is to survive the winter, hibernate as the storm passes by.’

  And I had been right: the storm did pass. But once it was gone, there was nothing left. We had been sucked into it. All of us.

  Behind it, a desolate landscape.

  I killed my son and I killed my wife. My stubbornness killed them.

  Let everything be silent.

  Let me die.

  20

  HE SAT QUIETLY in bed. Something swept by in the darkness, taking him with it.

  Perhaps it was an icy wind.

  Perhaps it was the Erinyes.

  His fingers touched the yellowed paper. He could feel the distance between the barely legible pencil letters. Ice was growing between them. Between the letters. It would never melt.

  Paul Hjelm took off his new reading glasses and placed them on the bedside table, switched off the lamp and stared out into the darkness.

  So, he thought, groping for Cilla’s warm body. His hand snaked beneath the blanket, coming to rest between her shoulder blades. She murmured. A sign of life.

  So, that was how things could have been. Things could have turned out that way for him, too. If he had been born at the wrong time, to the wrong parents. His own thoughts could have been exactly like Leonard Sheinkman’s during those bleak February days in 1945. Disjointed, loose, but still with great and terrible repressed emotion.

  Leonard Sheinkman had been convinced he was going to die back then, but he hadn’t. A few months later, the war had ended. He came out on the other side. He had been utterly, utterly empty, and now faced a choice: stay put and go under or move and make a new life for himself. Become someone else. He had chosen the latter, it had been a possibility for him. But what kind of end had he met? Being hung from a tree in the Jewish cemetery fifty-five years later? How was that possible? What had happened?

  At that moment, Paul Hjelm was powerless to go through what he had read and draw any rational conclusions. He was much too moved. That was roughly what he had been expecting – and yet it was completely different. A different tone. Sorrow beyond all sorrow. As though it had been written from beyond the grave.

  A weighty German-Swedish dictionary was resting on his stomach. In his left hand, he was holding the pages he had read; in his right, those he hadn’t. The piles were roughly equal in size, meaning he still had half left to read. He was looking forward to it – but he was also dreading it.

  Paul Hjelm felt completely destroyed. As though he had been ransacked. In a way, that was what had happened.

  Buchenwald, Nazi Germany’s largest concentration
camp, was seven kilometres outside Weimar in the former DDR. The city had been the European Capital of Culture just one year ago; the place in which Goethe had changed the face of world literature. In 1919, the first German democracy, the Weimar Republic, had been founded there. In 1926, the Hitler Youth had been formed there. That same year, the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, the NSDAP, had held its first party meeting in Weimar’s national theatre. Then, between 1937 and 1945, two hundred and thirty-eight thousand people had been held prisoner in Buchenwald; there had been no gas chambers, but there had been a centre for ‘medical research’. In total, fifty-six thousand people had lost their lives in Buchenwald, practically within sight of Goethe’s Weimar. Between 1945 and 1950, it had also served as a Soviet detention camp for Germans. A further seventeen thousand people had died.

  It was the cradle of the European paradox.

  Paul Hjelm turned over to turn off the light.

  Only then did he realise it was already out.

  He fell asleep late that night.

  21

  HEARTS WAS BUT a memory. In the little stone house just outside the medieval village of Montefioralle deep within the hills of Chianti, there was no longer time for computer games.

  There was Italian to be read.

  It was hard work, going through Commissioner Italo Marconi’s investigation into the Milanese crime syndicate, Ghiottone. New information was also constantly arriving from Stockholm via email, fax and telephone.

  Still, if you were a Europol officer, you were a Europol officer.

  The aim of The Hague-based European law-enforcement organisation was to increase the effectiveness and cooperation of the competent member state authorities, particularly when it came to preventing and combating terrorism and the illegal trade of drugs, as well as other serious forms of international crime. Europol had been founded in order to make a significant contribution to the European Union’s efforts against organised crime.

  ‘OK,’ Söderstedt said to his computer as he sat on the porch with yet another glass of Vin Santo in his hand. ‘OK, that was a quote. I confess, computer. I didn’t even know I was a Europol officer when I went to Milan. So, yes: I’m sitting here, on holiday, citing police statutes with myself as the only witness. And you of course, computer.’